you can still remember dreaming
by coffee-not-decaf
Summary: Merlin didn't sleep often, but when he did, he dreamed.


Merlin didn't sleep often, but when he did, he dreamed.

He dreamed vividly, in Technicolor and rainbows, in flashes of red and gold, in castles and courtyards, in dragons and unicorns, in dancing blue eyes and golden hair. Everything in that lucid state is so very real, as if all Merlin had to do was somehow reach into the images with his mind and he would be able to pull out the memories and put them on display for all to see.

He could find pieces of Gwaine, of Lancelot, of Gwen, of Gaius, of Freya, of his mother and father. He could find pieces of Camelot, Ealdor, Camlann. Pieces of horses and banners and swords and battles; pieces of kings and queens and knights and sorcerers and servants. In these dreams, in these memories, he could find pieces of anything he desired from any of his multitude of lives.

Pieces of Arthur.

Just pieces, of course, just bits and flashes that gave him jolts of remembrance, but not enough to sustain any real feeling other than longing, a desperate wish he could see more, hear the sounds, the trumpets and laughter in the courtyard, and a voice calling his name angrily, and always in that particular way that no one ever used anymore…

The dreams were beautiful, but they were deadly and dangerous and it was all Merlin could do to keep from falling into one of them; diving headfirst and never letting himself wake again.

It was a nice idea, one that would surely grant him more happiness than this cursed, wandering half-life of his spent waiting for his other half to return, but it was futile to even think of some incredulities, because for all of Merlin's power, he could not put himself to sleep forever.

Just as he could not raise the dead from their watery tombs.

So he took the dreams as they came, in their fractured little fragments, and he held onto those fragments so tightly, keeping them close to his heart for whenever circumstances became particularly bad again. They were his beacon of light shining in the endless black, the last thing he had left of Camelot and of its king.

He never heard much of anything in these dreams, the images always overwhelmed him far before he could even process hearing words. There was constantly a steady thrum in the background of each of them, though, a voice, so quiet that it could barely be heard, saying his name over and over and over again, calling out to him bringing peace to his warring heart.

_Merlin, Merlin, Merlin…_

It was a comfort, the voice. Merlin didn't know what part of his subconscious had created the voice, but he was grateful for it nonetheless. He wasn't alone, even when the years got longer and longer, the distance between him and Arthur growing steadily, he had that voice as a constant companion as he slept.

He wished he could answer the distant call, but his memories never allowed it. If only he could respond, if only the voice would speak something other than his name, if only a lot of things. Merlin had never gotten his lot in life; he was used to this kind of treatment from the gods above. Still, it was a feeble hope.

Until the day when it wasn't so feeble.

The 1980s were a decent decade, as far as decades went, Merlin had decided. It wasn't horrible, like the 1940s had been, and the century itself was a much better state of living affairs than so many that had come before it.

There was heat now; air conditioning and showers and cars and trains, television and computers, and those were beautiful things in of themselves. It wasn't so easy to be lonely anymore. Everyone was connected somehow and in some way.

The dreams continued, though, because nothing, no matter how grand or precious, could compare to Camelot. The voice still called to him.

But one night, a night no different from any other, as Merlin collapsed into his London flat after a long day at the hospital he had decided was a good enough place to make some money for a few years, the voice said something different.

_Merlin – Merlin! Merlin, finally! You can hear me, right? _

_Of course you're not going to respond. You're asleep. I'd yell at you to wake up, but then you wouldn't hear me at all. _

_By the Gods, I hate that. _

_Merlin, you better be hearing me right now. If you don't remember, then I'll have to retract any compliment I ever gave you and make sure you know that you are truly worthless._

_Well, I suppose that's not exactly fair. You're out there, aren't you? You've been waiting. And you don't have to wait anymore. _

_I'm coming back. _

_I'm coming back, Merlin, I would expect a better reaction than snoring! Honestly, you have no sense of decency. _

_They told me that it was my time; that I must return to you at last. And it's about time, really, I've been calling to you for years and you never heard a single word. _

_You definitely are the greatest idiot in the entire world. It's a wonder that you made it out there on your own._

_I wish I could have been there with you. _

_But I'm coming now. I'm coming soon. Just a little longer, Merlin, can you wait just a little longer for me?_

_I'm sorry. _

_I'm sorry I couldn't stay with you. I wanted to. I never asked you to wait, but you did, and I'll always be grateful for that._

_And I miss you._

_I hope you miss me, too. _

Merlin jerked awake, heart pounding wildly, his thoughts running at light speed as he clutched at his sheets as if they were a lifeline grounding him to reality, which, for all intents and purposes, they were. He wasn't sure what was real, what was a memory, and what was or wasn't Arthur's voice.

His magic was humming underneath his skin, lit aglow, bathed in the after-effects of the dream/the reality. Which was it? It had seemed so real, but yet again, all of his dreams did. They were real and that was what made them so depressing and yet so incredible.

Just as this was. Was Arthur truly coming back? Did he just speak to Merlin; give him those sweet and beautiful words, those insults that Merlin had so dearly missed? Or was it another one of destiny's tricks, overtaking Merlin, giving him hope and snatching it up from underneath him the second he found it?

He hadn't a single clue.

But there were tears streaking down his face, and for the first time in so many years, Merlin felt as if Camelot was truly within his grasp.

As if Arthur was next to him once again.

If he could have that feeling, it might suffice.

At least for a while.

"_You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you. That's where I'll be waiting" – J.M. Barrie_


End file.
